Neurotoxin
by Queen of Hellions
Summary: The DiVAS is a league for the elite, the skilled, those who win over Bill in some way...in fictions everyone seems to make it...now read the tale of one who didn't quite cut the mustard.
1. Introduction

OOC: Just a test...since I've read a really good Kill Bill fan fiction by Erica Dawn (check it out, it's called Nine Lives) I decided to write one of my own. I know I really should be keeping up on S&S (and the other like 5 stories I've written and been meaning to continue) but this is just something I wrote today during SET in second period. I don't own Kill Bill or any of the characters in it, but Jack Knox is © to me, Rachel M. Smith AKA Queen of Hellions. Yeah…I'm possessive? So what? Speaking of the character…if you can't get a good visual for him here (or just for kicks, whatever…) think Steve Buscemi, or Mr. Pink X3 Leave a review please! I don't pour my heart and soul out for lurkers 

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"I could have been somebody once."

He took a deep swig of the straight tequila contained within a gaudy, amber glass and resettled back into his chair with a soft sigh. This wasn't the typical chair, nor was it a stool of any type, but an old wheelchair was seemed so rusted and old it looked as if it were stolen right out of the pages of a history book. It seemed so odd it didn't even seem to fit in well in this poverty-stricken bar of Mexico. The man the cripple addressed sat beside him at the low bar counter. Only a half-empty beer sat before him, his dark eyes wandering to the edges of his optics to steal his first glance at the cripple.

Soon his gave drifted and he gave a questioning glance to the tender. The tender didn't seem to mind and continued on with his chores, which included using a dust-colored rag to wipe down the withered wooden counters and then proceed to give the gaudy glasses that had been turned in a good spit shine. Things were slow this afternoon, they always were, but it wasn't like he would pay much mind to two customers, let alone any, unless they called him to service for another drink or some other form of attracting his attention, such as a threat. The tender turned his back to the two men at the counter and walked out the back door to stand outside on the desert-floor porch of the adobe building.

With the tender's leaving the Hispanic man with the dark eyes turned to fully look over the cripple. He was a thin man with lanky brown hair that fell to the end of the bony divots in his cheeks. It must have been neat once, stylishly slicked back (but not long enough to hold back in a pony nub) with pomade or gel, but now it was just an oily former shell with no sign of receding, just continuing growth. His eyes were large, almost sickly looking like some disease, enveloped in deep folds of skin that did not seem to affect his age at all (he looked in his late 30s), his eyes still hold any ignorance that his youth might have had, a bright blue color. Though the man's skin was sallow-colored, surprising for one who lived in the desert and suffered the wrath of the sun, a flush of drunkenness stained his bony cheeks like fresh blood spatter upon the purest of white sheets.

"¿Perdón, señor?" meekly asked the Hispanic man that was so intently looking over the cripple.

A wry smile spread across the cripple's lips. He didn't seem to comprehend the man might not speak a word of English, it wasn't uncommon or unheard of in Mexico, but nonetheless he seemed ready to continue on now that he had the man's attention. His hand wandered to the end of the wheelchair arm and there he clenched it comfortably.

"The name's Knox. Jack Knox."

This the Hispanic seemed to understand, and quite well apparently. Perverse American phrases, what glee he got out of that, especially to hear two straight in a row that belonged to an individual such as this. He turned away slightly and curtly placed a half over his mouth to contain the humor he found in the name of the cripple. Apparently Jack didn't find this as amusing, he almost seemed sore about it. His sickly eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, reached down into his left boot and withdrew a switchblade. He flicked it open and rather than seeing a polished, shiny site of silver it was a worn piece spattered from tip to handle with a rye red color. As he turned back at the sudden action the Hispanic found himself caught quite off guard and fell back from his seat on the stool and landed flat on his back. As he sat up he found himself only a foot or so shorter than the man sitting in the wheelchair.

Eyes gleaming maliciously Jack nodded and mouthed something like "Yeah" with a deviously gleeful expression to the man who was staring up at him in disbelief. The Hispanic started to scuttle away in a seated position while pushing himself backwards with use of his legs. His gaze immediately averted to the back of the bar, but no tender had returned to see the source of the commotion. With both grace and ease as though he were just sitting in the wheelchair rather than confined to it, Knox glided forward and took the man's chin in hand, turning his head back towards him and held the switch blade to his neck.

"It's not very nice to make fun of other people, compadre. At least that's what they say."

Jack has no Spanish accent and the way he pronounced the Spanish word was typical, rye American. Gently he pressed the blade closer to the man's central neck region so the cool metal touched the Hispanic's tender, warm flesh. The blade was serrated, not with craftsmanship, but simply with age and neglect, snaggle-toothed where one should usually run smooth. In one swift motion Jack turned the blade over and peeled a layer of skin from the man's neck as if he had just stripped a layer of skin from some sort of bad orange that had turned a brownish color. The man howled in pain, but Jack didn't seem to notice.

"They also say you can tell a lot about a man from his weapon. Learned that the hard way."

He poked the bleeding muscle of the man's neck, for he was careful in his action not to slit the jugular and end it all so quickly, with part of the blade. The man grimaced and hissed in pain, yet he remained so rigid and still with sheer horror. Finally Jack pilled back and for an instant it seemed as though he would back off. No such luck. Seizing the man's pony nub of traditional ebony, Mexican hair near the man's neck and twisted it roughly to tilt the man's head off to the side. Jack's long pinky finger was kept close to the man's skin, in fact it started to dig into it and leave a small crescent shape in the tanned flesh of the man. Taking the knife up again Jack began to work the side of the Hispanic's neck with his blade, slowly cutting through the flesh and muscle, though he did seem cautious of what he was doing. Finally he spoke again.

"You like stories? Here's a doozy for ya."


	2. Cold sweat

_Sirens blared at almost a deafening tone just outside the young boy's window, but that wasn't the worst...oh no. Just outside his bedroom door his father was throwing a yelling fit and his mother was screeching, crying and crouched somewhere on the floor. He'd seen it all before, a seven year old, too many times...save for the sirens. The man's face would be glowing red like kindled embers and the woman would be pale as a corpse. Whether it was something as trivial as a sassy tone or something extreme like this they always found the time to fight._

_A loud knocking came to the front door, it was so loud it felt as if the whole house would crumble beneath it. The man stopped screaming and the woman stopped crying...all was still._

"_Police! Open the door!"_

_Still nothing moved and the boy mimicked this action by huddling in the far corner of the room near the closet. Red and blue flashes of light flitted to-and-fro from the windows and distorted, static voices rang through the night just outside the thin window of the run-down central house. A shadowy figure loomed past the window and slowly things started to come into focus, but before the boy had a chance to squint his eyes his mother screamed. The door had given way to the officer's kick and soft yet deadly clicks echoed in the depths of the house. There was struggle, but soon only frustrated cries from the man._

"_Anthony and Carly Knox you are placed under arrest for the possession of..."_

_The boy's blood ran cold and his large eyes set wide. The officer's words trailed off into meaningless murmers. He wasn't certain what was happening, but already he could feel its effects settling in. From the rush of adrenaline a few tears seeped from his inner eye and down his pale cheeks, his body couldn't seem to keep in sync with his breathing, already he felt light-headed. Suddenly a blinding flash of light fell over him from outside the window and he recoiled as if he had never seem the light of day before._

"_Hey! We've got a kid back here!"_

_In a flash he found himself in the arms of a large, black officer. The man's face was wet with perspiration, but he smelt rich like some cologne one only comes across once. He felt secure with this man, his frail arms wrapped around the officer's thick neck, and legs hanging almost uselessly in total submission. When they had made their way out of the doorway the boy looked around at the compact living room. Things were strewn everywhere, even the tables were turned upside-down save for one everyone was gathered around studying a powdery substance and the couch that had been stripped down and revealed to contain many white bricks labeled in red lettering and tape. He was too busy staring intently at the new discovery to hear the officer's full discussion with his fellows, only distorted bits._

"_Yeah. The door was locked and everything. Probably been there for days...looks hungry. I'm taking him back to the station and CPS can take it from there."_

_Soon they stepped outside into the cool night air. Things were less calm outside, people were fussing with two shadowy figures near one of the patrol cars. As the officer walked closer to his own car the boy was able to make out the monsterous figures as his own parents...but they looked different than the last time he saw them, when that was he couldn't quite recall. It was so hard to tell time...especially when you weren't schooled to tell it. Their skin was sallow, eyes sunken in and blazing with an intense fire. From their nose trickled a stream of blood that ran over their upper lips and down into their mouths...he couldn't look at them too long. He pressed his head into the officer's shoulder, but one eye kept a vigilant gaze on his parents. His mother had vanished into the car and his father was in the process of being shoved in. Their eyes met for a split second and that was it...he lost it._

"_Piece of shit! This is all your fault, you god damn mistake!"_

_The boy didn't have time to react, his vigilant eye remained wide with some undistinguished human emotion. The door closed on the unhappy couple and the car started up, smoke emitting from its back from the cold autumn air. As the car turned around the boy saw the woman slam her face into the window and scream something, but it only came out as a muffled whimper._

"_I love you, baby! We'll come back for you!" _

With that the car vanished down the road enveloped in the smoke the old exhaust pipe spewed out...everything he knew died that night.

Jack shot up in bed so fast he thrust his head back against the headboard with a loud thump. Cursing rather loudly he winced and gripped the back of his head tightly for a moment. His hand fell limply back onto the sheets and he took in a few deep, shaky breaths before slinging his legs over the edge of the cot. Wincing still he cupped his face in his hands and nuzzled into his hands for comfort. He could feel his skin wet with perspiration and tears...but those were quickly wiped away with disgust. As he lifted his head again he took another steady breath before he leaned over to the bed-side stand and picked up the receiver of the phone. Placing it to his ear he impatiently awaited for the pick-up.

"Hello?" came a groggy voice of response.

"I need a fix."

"What the fuck?" the voice responded in a more awake, annoyed manner. "It's 3:30 in the fucking morning."

"And you're not up?" Jack responded dryly, "Listen, I don't give a shit. I need something and I need it now."

"Bad dream?" The man responded like he understood.

"...yeah." Jack retorted with some difficulty. He brushed some hair from his face and held it there on his scalp-line.

"Christ. Dream of chicks instead of the past. That's a better hit than you're ever gonna get."

"Yeah? Well maybe it's the shit you're giving me that's making my nights a living hell."

"You'd come crawling back to me...you've got nowhere else to go, you son-of-a-bitch." The man on the other line chuckled and seemed a bit more vivacious than before.

"I'm coming over," Jack didn't pay any mind to the man's amusement.

"Cecilia and Callada are here. Give me a break...wait until the morning."

"Perfect. I'll be right over."

Without waiting for a response Jack hung up the receiver. By now the land lady of the adobe boarding house was stirring, her heavy body made the very floorboards creak as well as the stairs. She lived on the bottom floor, so naturally when she came up it was easy to mistake her for one of those infamous earthquakes the area was prone to. Jack didn't make much noise, he himself was fairly thin and cautious. As he tugged on a pair of jeans he listened to the dying off rumble of the land-lady descending down the stairs. He was buttoning his shirt just as he walked out the door and descended down the stairs.

By 3:45 Jack was on his way to Alejandro's already wired, but not yet recovered. Some of Ale's shit would calm his nerves...and the twins were a bonus.


	3. The Card

The rickety Ford 4x4 rattled down the road in the dark hours of the morning. Jack had gone a ways and was already closing in on Alejandro's at about 4 AM. He took one hand from the steering wheel and wiped his brow with it to discover his hair was still damp with cold sweat. He looked up into the review mirror to catch a glimpse of himself, and for some reason it caught him by surprise. He was a mess, a real Grade A mess. The deep sags under his eyes were rimmed with black from lack of sleep while new creases in his face were beginning to show he age he had not yet seen. Jack suddenly felt the strange urge to caress his face with his hands in an embrace-like manner, but before he could contemplate any more on the manner something else caught his eye.

Headlights. Headlights that belonged to a semi-truck headed straight for the Ford. While in his daze he drifted into the opposite lane of the road and into the iron giant's path. Jack was frozen in shock for a moment and could do nothing except hear the baritone barrels of the truck's horn echo distantly in the far reaches of his mind. Finally in a motion of panic his hands jerked the steering wheel off to the side with a loud, explicit yell. The semi glided by with an angry roar as the Ford slid off the road and into a ditch just offside the lane. Jack was frozen in terror.

His hands were still tightly clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles bone white from their death-like grip. His set of blues were wide in a panicked fashion, jaw trembling slightly and suddenly he felt the weariness of the world weighting upon him in a fashion he had never known before. Everything was out to get him, do him in…he was a worthless piece of shit with only the soul purpose of being tossed into the fires of the deepest pit of Hell in order to keep the place smoking. His hands slowly released the wheel and he slumped back in the seat with a deep sigh. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere at 4 AM with truck that was an equal mess of him and deprived of the only thing he went out for: a hit. Was that too much to ask? Angrily he ripped the keys from the keyhole and kicked open the door, which chimed softly to indicate the door was still open, and stalked across the empty road to the other side. Ale's "ranch" was less than a mile away.

"¡Cabrón!" Alejandro laughed loudly as Jack finished the epic tale of his arrival. He was much more awake than when Jack had called him up at his home. He took Jack's arm roughly and laid it down upon the table they sat at.

"Well, that certainly made my day," Ale chuckled softly again as he turned slightly in the chair to grab something from a box behind him. "Four o'clock in the fucking morning and my day is made."

Jack winced slightly at the appearance of his friend, or more-so supplier. Somehow the sight became more repulsive every time he saw Alejandro, but he couldn't recall as to why. The man was far past obese, and the chair could vouch twice over for that the way it was cracking and squeaking with the man's ever breath. The way he was turned, his wife-beater rose to show tanned flesh and ripples of fat. He had dark skin, a broad face and nothing charming about him. Even the silver fillings in his mouth were gaudy and repulsive. "You always have someone at your expense."

"Nah," Ale calmly said as he turned around holding a needle. His attention was drawn back to Jack's arm that was strewn wrist-up upon the table. "I just like you a lot." Gingerly, he rolled up Jack's sleeve to his elbow revealing the sallow arm marked with various welts and bruises from previous injections. His veins had a pattern of their own, making themselves visible and invisible at their leisure it seemed. Ale paid no mind to it and held Jack's lower arm while guiding the needle into a select blood vessel and pressing down so it sank beneath the flesh and entered the interstate of the bloodstream.

"Besides, I'm having my fair share of expense at the moment, Cabrón."

Jack winced and gave a light hiss as the needle sank beneath his skin. He wasn't sure if it was actually that brief pain or the actual rush from the drug, but he looked away quickly and his lower body shifted uncomfortably.

"What do you mean?"

Alejandro did not respond and seemed to avoid the topic with certain suaveness. He kept his gaze locked on Jack's arm and watched the fine bristles of hair rise every moment the needle remained in. His pause was no more than a few seconds; silence was something he could not live with. After what seemed like his eternity, Ale spoke.

"So these dreams you've been having…"

"Parents," Jack knew Ale was one to be trusted. In fact, he subconsciously knew that Ale already had a general idea of what the nightmares were of. There wasn't much else a grown man could fear but a bad past experience. Though he still felt that embarrassing, it was better one than a wide array.

"Ahh," Ale nodded and withdrew the needle. Jack made a similar comment, but more to the effect of pain rather than understanding. "They were good people, y'know?"

"Oh yeah," Jack rolled his eyes as he tugged the sleeve of his shirt down. "Wonderful. Great. Parents of the year."

"Awards got nothing to do with it," Ale said sternly with a true frown on his repulsive, flat face. "You were alright for a seven year old…had a good head on your shoulders, literate," he shook his head, "now you're taking that shit for granite by the likes of me. Cabrón."

Jack smiled.

"You were the one who raised me…picked me up at the station."

"What else could I have done? Your father and I were like this," he held up his chubby, ringed pointer and middle finger and entwined them with a bit of difficulty.

"In the same line of work, probably fucked my mom over a few times too, huh?" Jack asked seriously. He looked rather annoyed, in fact; cold, sunken blue eyes glaring Ale down. The faint light made him look even more murderous. Slowly they started to glaze over and he burst into a fit of insane laughter.

Ale soon joined him, "Jesus Christ!" He chuckled and shook his head, "You had me shitting bricks there for a minute."

"You shit bricks all the time, you piece of shit."

Ale laughed again, hard this time. Pain reflected in his face, yet he still kept on laughing and gripping his large guy. "Ay Dios mijo," he said wearily and leaned back in the chair. Another snap.

Jack sunk down into his chair a bit unconsciously. He was getting hazier by the minute and wanted to get the shit out of Alejandro before he decided to konk out.

"So what were you talking about getting screwed over or some shit?"

"I never did your mom."

"Not that," he snorted with laughter a bit. He couldn't help it.

"Oh," Ale paused to roll his shoulders slightly. Still uncomfortable, he winced and moved a great arm behind his massive body to unattractively scratch his rear. "Some piece of shit won't pay his tab. Got him and his own some high-quality shit. Ah…I don't wanna talk to the fucker, got to have someone do it for me."

Jack raised a brow at this. "So you gave them the shit before they even paid the tab?" His temperature was rising a bit; he could feel it in his veins. The hair on his arms slowly settled and a light blush came to his cheeks as he laughed giddily. "Then I figure you deserve it, asshole. Quality shit." He shook his head in disgust. "I get the shit end of the stick and some pussy and his cocksuckers get the Ritz."

"That pussy and his cocksuckers promised a lot," Ale shrugged. "Looked like the trustable sort. Not too ritzy, but not to badgey either."

"Badgey?" Jack asked, bewildered. His eyes opened a bit wider, shadows on the sags under his eyes easing a bit.

"Y'know," Ale explained, "like a cop."

"Get a fucking dictionary," Jack laughed airily. "Anyway…you got this guy's number?"

Ale frowned.

"I'm not entirely brain-dead, Cabrón." He fumbled in his grease-stained front pocket with his massive fingers and withdrew a single card. "I want you to talk to me for him. Think of it as payment."

Jack took the card with his trembling hand, "I thought you said you liked me."

"I like a lot of things. Cash, bitches, hoes, Hell…I like Oprah. Doesn't mean I'd take a bullet for her." Ale smiled just a bit.

"I don't even know what I'm-" Jack was cut off by a whistle from Ale, then an incomprehensible yell in Spanish. Everything was going hazy…

Before he knew what was going on, he found himself hauled to his feet by one of Ale's great arms. His upper body was limply hanging over it while his feet dragged beneath it. Then he was suddenly cast aside, not like something repulsive, but like an orderly shove to demonstrate rank.

The surface he had landed on was soft enough, but still felt stiff and squeaked whenever it moved. A bed. A bed so worn down by Alejandro's girth that the springs squeaked and moaned even at the sound of footsteps approaching. The footsteps that were drawing closer were not, however, massive, but dainty. The silhouette of a nude woman came into view making her way towards the bed in a sultry manner. Jack simply watched in a vegetated state as she made her way closer. In an instant her slender, tanned thighs were planted on either side of his hips while her sinned body loomed over him, black cascades of curled brown locks flowing across his neck and chest. He could not make out her face, but was no longer concentrating on her at the moment at any matter. His focus had drawn to the card clasped in his right hand that was laid across his chest. The card held two sets of numbers, but also a name in bold, wispy print. It was elegant, yet something forbidding lingered about the aura of the letters. The rest was all a blur as he felt himself pass out while his eyes were still very much open.

BILL

(To be continued! Read and Review, PLEEEASE. :) A writer needs some feedback!)


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